


Dante's Prayer

by Lunochka (distaff_exile)



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, and I wrote it when I was young and awful, squad as chosen family, this is still better than how it actually went
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-05
Updated: 2004-08-05
Packaged: 2019-02-14 21:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13016565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distaff_exile/pseuds/Lunochka
Summary: 'Tell me, Detective Sergeant --' he said with a sneer -- 'how long d'you think it'll be before someone misses you?'(lift this mortal veil of fear.)





	Dante's Prayer

1.

 

Once upon a time, there was a young woman with long, golden hair. Her friends and lovers called her Sister Sunshine, and all of them loved her well. But the woman was not sunshine, only flesh and blood. Soon, she fell pregnant, and gave birth to a baby girl.  
  
She went away on a January morning, cold and cloudy, just right.  
  
The little girl remained in the care of the Sisters of St Clare for a year. Exactly two weeks after her first birthday, she was adopted by a well-meaning but ultimately useless couple. The man was a businessman who couldn't be bothered to stick around and watch his daughter grow. His wife had nothing but fluff in her silly head, and if the little girl had been her own flesh and blood, the same might have been said for her.  
  
But blood will out.  
  
The girl grew into a woman herself, with hair the same shade as that of her mother, even if it was considerably shorter. She took her exams, went to uni, and joined the Metropolitan Police.  
  
It was then that the past turned up to haunt her, in its own peculiar way. Sunshine's child -- Amelia, that was what the couple had called her -- was the image of her mother, down to the colour of her eyes and the tilt of her nose. One couldn't help but recognise her, if one knew Sunshine back in the day. Naturally, someone did.   
  
That someone cocked his gun and pointed it straight at her. 'Hands up, miss,' he said, 'an' come with me.'

 

* * *

 

It had been such a long time since Mel Silver had acknowledged any family. Her adoptive parents hadn't suited her very well, but at least they had raised her. They had tried, in their own way, to do well by an abandoned little girl. No, the reason Mel was tied to a support column on the top floor of a warehouse was her birth mother, a drugged-out shell of a woman she'd met only recently.  
  
And here was the man Mel had reason to believe was her father -- or at least, a likely candidate.  
  
'What do you want from me?' Mel asked, twisting her hands against the ropes with which he'd bound her. If she survived this, she would have the rope burn from hell on her wrists. 'I'll happily do a DNA test. We can find out the truth, and you'll either get a daughter or be able to move on.'  
  
'Nice thought,' the man said, 'but that's not it. You bein' Sunshine's brat, that's just a wee coincidence.' He paced back and forth in front of her, stopping periodically to dash his fist against the wall or the column. 'Tell me, Detective Sergeant --' he said with a sneer -- 'how long d'you think it'll be before someone misses you?'  
  
That was actually a good question. Mel wasn't entirely sure of the answer, either. She lived alone, with no pets, and she wasn't home often enough to be friendly with the neighbours. Boyd had ordered her to take three days off, undoubtedly under pressure from Grace. Everyone else would still be working, of course; no-one would think to run by and check on her. After all, she was a self-sufficient sort of person. She didn't have a boyfriend. All of her friends worked with her. _Good lord, I'm pathetic,_ she thought.  
  
'I imagine someone's going to notice you ain't there, oh, any minute now,' the man continued. 'Then they'll send out the cavalry and you can go free. Except you won't be free.' He crouched down beside her and held out a collar. 'Do you know what this is?'  
  
'I've never seen it before in my life,' Mel said, 'but I'm certain you'll tell me.'  
  
'This, my dear, is a bomb.' He fastened it around her neck. 'When I push this little red button on my belt, the clock will start counting down from five minutes. I can blow ye sky high whenever I please, of course.'  
  
'How do I get it off?' asked Mel.  
  
'You don't,' said the man with a funny little smile. 'You go out there and -- you die. Ah, but not straight away! They're going to have you down to the nick for questioning and all that shite. Then you die, Amelia, surrounded by your friends.' He winked and nudged her chin with a large, meaty fist. 'Take heart, my gel, you won't be alone by any means.'  
  
'I think...' she said, then stopped.  
  
'What?'  
  
'I think I'm going to be sick.' She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed back the bile. 'Please.'  
  
He cut the ropes and shoved her towards the wall. 'No point in keepin' ye tied, now I've got you where I want you.'  
  
She threw up enough times to empty her stomach and leave her aching all over. Part of it was nerves; no sane person could relish the thought of death, not like this madman keeping her hostage. She was frightened, not only for herself but for her friends. What would happen if she was found, and they couldn't get the collar off in time?  
  
_Then you die, Amelia. Then you die._

 

2.

 

He was getting impatient. She saw him glance out the windows every few minutes. He wanted to be discovered, make no mistake, and for once, she did not.  
  
This was, of course, going to kill the team -- and not just because of her collar. The squad was her family now, more so than any of her parents had ever been. Spence was like a big brother to her, even if he could be a bit competitive about rank and such. Frankie, likewise, had become a sister, someone to giggle with on break, someone to talk about girlie things with. There were so few young women in the Met.  
  
_Now there will be one less._  
  
Grace, the mum she'd always wanted. Brilliant Grace, whose head was so stuffed with psychological minutiae that there was no room left for fashion sense. Nobody minded; Frankie was sometimes worse, and nobody looked good in white coveralls.  
  
And Boyd, whatever the hell he was. Not quite another brother; he was too old for that. Not a father, either; as far as she knew, he'd had his fill of that role. Perhaps just a friend, but a very good one, even if he was a little brisk sometimes. All right, he was out-and-out abusive when his temper got the best of him. Ideally, his therapist would train that out of him.  
  
They were all special. She would miss them, once she had gone. Well, no, she wouldn't -- she'd be far beyond missing anyone.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sometimes she fancied she could hear sirens in the distance.  
  
She'd taken to standing at a window herself, watching what roads she could see for a sign of help to come. _Don't come,_ she prayed. _Leave me to die, or let this man kill me here, but don't come to my aid._ She wasn't sure what God did to people who killed others accidentally, but it couldn't be fun. Maybe she wouldn't find herself in the World to Come; maybe something would send her back here to watch the aftermath of her own death. _Maybe I'll have to watch over them for the rest of their lives. Community service. Hah._ She was beginning to lose it.  
  
Thirty-six hours had passed since she'd been taken; in that time, she'd been fed twice, throwing up straight away each time. Water was freely given; that was probably the only reason she still had enough energy to move. She'd thought of using her cell phone; unfortunately, its battery had gone sometime during the first half-day, when she'd still been tied up.  
  
Suicide was looking better and better by the hour. If she was going to die anyway, why not on her own terms? She had thought of tackling the man, maybe killing him before he could kill her; ah, but all he had to do to win was push the button. She'd need surprise on her side, and as she was the only thing he had to look at, she wasn't going to get it. Anyway, what would she use? The warehouse had been stripped bare before her arrival. So suicide was the last option. Yet part of her still clung to hope. _Someone might come,_ she thought, even as she wished it weren't true. _They'll take him out with a sniper. I'll steal the belt. The bomb squad will take my collar off. I'll be free._  
  
But... _Then you die._ His voice echoed in her ears, even though he hadn't spoken since yesterday. He had sounded so determined. She could hardly imagine a situation that would allow her to live.  
  
_Which will it be?_ she asked herself. _Let him decide, or take matters into your own hands?_  
  
The high road would kill her, no matter what else happened; if she waited for someone to save her, he would probably end up killing everyone.  
  
One life for many. Her life. In the abstract, the solution was clear. Faced with the situation, she could not bring herself to make the decision. So she waited for someone to take it out of her hands, even though the waiting was agony.  
  
Thirty-six hours to go.  
  
  


* * *

 

When Mel didn't come in on the morning of the fourth day, Boyd was not very alarmed, but Frankie was.  
  
'Don't you think she would have called?' Frankie asked, following Boyd down the corridor to the building canteen.  
  
'Two coffees, one black, one with cream and two sugars. No, Frankie.' Boyd steadied her, holding her by the shoulders. 'She's overslept, that's all.' He took their coffees from the young man at the canteen window. 'If you're that worried, you can check on her. Go on, ring her.'  
  
They sat down at the table nearest the door, and Frankie pulled out her phone. 'I'll try her at home first,' she said, dialing the number. Boyd watched her, staring over the top of his glasses.  
  
'Nothing,' Frankie finally said. 'Either she's so deeply asleep she can't hear the phone, or she isn't there.'  
  
'Then she's skiving off, and I want a word with her,' Boyd said. 'I'll try her mobile.' But there wasn't an answer there, either. 'You don't think...'  
  
'I hope not.'  
  
Later that morning, the team piled into Boyd's Lexus for a little field trip.  
  
'She is there!' Boyd said upon seeing Mel's car still parked in front of the apartment building. 'I knew it. See, nothing to worry about.'  
  
'I'll feel better once I hear it from her,' Spence said. 'You can stay behind, but I'm going up. Anyone else coming?'  
  
'I am,' Frankie said. 'Grace, you'd best remain behind with Boyd.'  
  
'Yeah, there's really no telling what's up there,' Spence added.  
  
'Nonsense,' protested Grace. 'She's my friend as much as yours. If something's happened, I should be there.' She glared at Boyd. 'We all should.'  
  
'Grace!' cried Boyd. 'Not you too.'  
  
Grace folded her arms over her chest and waited.  
  
'Oh, bloody hell. All right. Everybody out.' Boyd shut the car off and yanked the key from the ignition. 'You are all buying me lunch if she's there.'  
  
'In what capacity?' mumbled Frankie. 'You can still be at home if... well.' She shook her head. 'Let's not think about that.'

 

3.

 

The man had lost his patience by the second day. By the fourth, he'd got himself into a snit of epic proportions.  
  
_He's worse than Boyd,_ Mel thought as she watched him stalking around the top floor. Then: _If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to go insane._  
  
Seventy-two hours without food. Over three days in which she'd been cut off from civilisation. Damn it all, this had been her first holiday in a year! She'd even worked Christmas, just to get some time saved up, all for what -- three days of captivity at the hands of a murdering bastard who could possibly be her father? _What did I do to deserve this?_  
  
'Just bloody do something!' Mel shouted, breaking the carefully maintained silence. 'I'm hungry, I'm cold, and if you try to send me out to greet anyone right now, I'm going to pass out!' She knew she was going to grey out soon; the bleakness had begun to encroach upon her vision as soon as she'd said something. _Deep breaths, Silver,_ she coached herself. _Try again -- but calmer this time._ 'Nobody's going to know where I am. You've done too good a job of hiding me.'  
  
'We are getting desperate,' the man said, smirking at her from twenty feet away. 'Goodness me. Have you made up your mind?'  
  
_I have, haven't I? But I'm desperate, and if I don't do something, we'll be here 'til I'm an old-age pensioner and he's dead._ She closed her eyes. _God forgive me, but I can't wait any longer._ 'My diary's in my purse,' she said. 'In the back, there's a list of phone numbers. Call anyone from that list; they're the only ones who might care.'  
  
As he rummaged through the bag, she felt a tear slip down her cheek.  
  
  


* * *

 

Mel's apartment had turned into a crime scene in the space of an hour.  
  
They had found no trace of her. The bed was cold and still made. The dirt around her potted plants was as dry as dust. The milk in her refrigerator had gone off, and by the smell of things, so had whatever was left of the food on the unwashed dishes.  
  
'Question the neighbours' was the standing order. Boyd had personally asked the landlord a few questions, and just as personally threatened to toss him down the back stairwell if he didn't comply. ('So much for anger management,' Grace could be heard to mutter, and Frankie had nodded in assent.) Phone calls to Mel's parents had given them nothing, and nobody could think of anyone else to try.  
  
The landlord was just beginning to sweat when Boyd's phone rang.  
  
'Don't think I'm done with you,' he said to the landlord. 'Boyd!'  
  
'Is this Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd?' It was a calm voice, raspy and quiet. 'I have something you want.'  
  
'You bastard.' Boyd signaled to the team on his way down the stairs. 'Where are you?'  
  
'Ah-ah, old chum,' the man said. 'First things first. I want your word you ain't bringin' any sharpshooters.'  
  
'Done,' Boyd said, without stopping to question why. 'Now, directions?'  
  
  


* * *

  
  
At first, Mel thought the sirens were a hallucination. Upon hauling herself to her feet and peeking out, she was able to see that they were, in fact, real.  
  
'No,' she whispered, hiding her face against the wall. 'It's too soon.'  
  
'Too soon to die?' the man asked. 'You've had... oh, I should say about eighty hours to think about it.' He took the remote detonator off his belt. 'Time to go, Amelia.' His finger hovered over the button. 'I won't push this until you're out there.'  
  
Still she did not move.  
  
'I can wait here all day, you know.' He moved in close, forcing her to look him right in the eye. 'And if they come for you, I push the button. You can get it over with now, or you can wait and you'll die with me. Which will it be, my dear? Would you like to die without saying goodbye to the ones you love?'  
  
Footsteps on the pavement below grew louder and louder. She could hear Boyd screaming at Frankie and Grace to stay back. Spence knocked on the door, calling 'Police! Open up!'  
  
'I'll go,' Mel said quietly. 'Activate the sodding bomb before I change my mind.'  
  
The man pushed the button. Tick. Tick. Tick.  
  
'It's been a pleasure knowing you.' He kissed her on the cheek and slapped her arse. 'Now go meet your friends, there's a love. Can't keep them waiting; wouldn't that be rude?'  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Two minutes after the police arrived on the scene, the hostage was released. Mel took the stairs two at a time, wanting to be outside when she drew her final breath. 'Boyd,' she called to her boss, who was evidently very upset that Frankie had decided not to stay put. 'It's all right. Stop yelling. You're hurting my ears.'  
  
'Mel?' he asked, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. 'Is that...'  
  
'It's me,' she said. _But not for very long._  
  
She submitted to being hugged and kissed soundly, but only for about a minute more. Time was running short; she did not want to be in that alley when the bomb went off.  
  
Tick. Tick. Tick.  
  
'I can't do this,' she cried. 'Grace, take care of everyone. They'll need you soon. I love you all, do you understand?'  
  
'Mel, what's wrong?' asked Frankie. 'Come on, you're safe.'  
  
'No, no,' Mel said, shaking her head. 'Get away from me, please.' She pointed to the collar. 'That's a bomb.'  
  
'Shit!' shouted Spence. 'Stay right there. I'm going after the bastard.'  
  
There was no time for this, couldn't they see? 'I love you,' she repeated. 'Don't grieve.'  
  
She tried to run, but Boyd caught her. 'Let's get this thing off,' he growled. 'Stay still or we're both dead.'  
  
'Boyd!' Mel lashed out at him fiercely, fighting for her freedom. 'It's no use. The damn thing doesn't come off. I tried.' She drew a sharp breath; it was now or never, and by God she would not kill him. 'I'm sorry.' It took everything she had not to cling to him then. Would she miss what could have been? 'Goodbye.'  
  
At the last possible moment, she broke free.  
  
Tick. Tick.  
  
And the clock stopped.

 

4.

 

'Get down!' Boyd dove for the nearest person -- Frankie,  _she can't see this_ \-- and dragged her to the ground. He did not watch the bomb detonate; the screams coming from the other witnesses would be haunting enough. _That isn't Mel,_ he thought, his eyes squeezed shut. _She was out of there as soon as the bomb went off. She never felt any pain._  
  
Below him, Frankie was shivering. 'Is it over?' she asked.  
  
'It's over,' Boyd said. 'Shhh.' He backed off, letting her sit up. 'She did what she thought was right. She saved us all.'  
  
Frankie clung to him, rocking and crying. Some distance away, Spence knelt and threw up. Grace crouched down beside him, holding his tie away from the mess and stroking his brow. Still Boyd would not look back. He had seen so much death in his lifetime; he would not have this to remember. Better to think of Mel as she had been in the moments before her death, when she twisted away from him. After that, he had to think of her as one already dead.  
  
_I'm going to have nightmares for the rest of my life._  
  
Boyd carried Frankie past the body, towards the mouth of the alley. 'Take her to casualty,' he ordered. 'I want her looked at. That goes for Dr Foley and Detective Sergeant Jordan, once they get here.'  
  
'What about you?' someone asked, someone who was much too young to have witnessed something so gruesome.  
  
Boyd's face hardened into a mask of rage. 'I'm going after the man who did this.'  
  
He did not see anything but what was directly in front of him as he ran back down the alley. Nothing else mattered any longer, only finding and killing the man who had sent Mel out to die. The bastard would die slowly, Boyd would make certain of that, and hang police brutality. Later, he would be well able to imagine what it was that Mel had gone through before her release. Later, but not now; he could not afford to break down now.  
  
There had been movement on the top floor. The bastard would still be there, Boyd guessed, watching what he had wrought. _Quiet... don't want to scare him off._  
  
Except, of course, Boyd was wrong.  
  
'I've been waiting for you.'  
  
The man wasn't very threatening in appearance. He was short, with tangled grey curls and a messy beard. Only his eyes spoke of a violent personality; they were fixed on Boyd, as surely as the gun in his hand.  
  
'Why'd you do it?' Boyd asked, drawing his own gun. 'You didn't have to kill her.'  
  
'You're right,' the man said nonchalantly. 'I didn't.'  
  
'Then why bother?'  
  
'She looked so much like her mother,' the man sighed. 'Where was her mother in all this? What kind of woman lets her child toddle off without wondering where she went?' He caressed the barrel of his pistol. 'Amelia looked so like her mother.'  
  
'You knew her mother?'  
  
'Biblically, my dear Boyd. That is your name, correct? Peter Boyd?' The man laughed. 'Yours was the first name listed in the back of her diary. I couldn't even find her mother's number. I was hoping you knew it.'  
  
'I don't.' Then something occurred to Boyd. 'You know, Mrs Silver is a redhead.'  
  
'Amelia was adopted by the Silvers. You mean you really had no idea?' He shrugged. 'I suppose this whole adventure was in vain, then. How could you possibly have thought to bring her real mother along if you didn't know she existed? Oh, how stupid of me.' He smacked his own forehead, very theatrically.  
  
Boyd pulled the trigger three times; by the time the man knew what had happened, his hand was a bloody, mangled mess. 'You'll never build a bomb again,' Boyd said. 'You could try shooting me, but I doubt you'd be very accurate. I suggest you make it easy for yourself and come quietly.'  
  
'I don't have to do anything.' The man dropped the gun; reaching backwards, he pulled a length of blue wire from the waist of his jeans. At the end of the wire was a crude on/off switch. 'I suggest you start running now, Mr Boyd.'  
  
He did.  
  
Precisely thirty seconds later, the top floor of the warehouse disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire.

 

5.

 

The funerals were both on the following Sunday, three days after the incident. One was very well-attended. There wasn't anyone at the other. You may guess which was which at your leisure.  
  
Life went on, as it usually did. Frankie took a month off and checked herself into a Swiss mountain resort; upon returning to England, she entered therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder. A week later, as she was leaving the psychiatrist's office with a prescription for sleeping pills, she ran into Boyd in the waiting area.  
  
_We are not all made of stone._ She smiled at him and said she would see him at work on Monday morning.  
  
Spence went on to have a very long and successful career with the bomb squad. When he was sixty, his superiors decided it was time he took up training -- old men have no place in the field, eh? So he taught new coppers to defuse bombs until his retirement. Every class heard the story of the young Detective Sergeant who was abducted and held hostage using a collar bomb. Nobody achieved a passing mark unless he could defuse one.  
  
_Please remember me..._  
  
Mel's death was the last straw for Grace. She left the Cold Case Unit, preferring to work with troubled teenagers out in the country. One of her young patients was a free-spirited girl with waist-length blonde hair and a child-swollen belly. When the child was born, Grace was there.  
  
The baby's name was Amelia.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004. Posted, as The Highwayman, to what was then my LJ and is now friends-locked there. I thought, hey, might as well. This has had some minor editing; other than that, what you see is what I wrote.


End file.
